


A World of Bloody Evolution

by neurotrophicfactors



Series: To Live Without A Lifeline [2]
Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Character Study, Gen, Panic Attacks, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Pre-Series
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-14
Updated: 2016-11-14
Packaged: 2018-08-30 22:29:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,801
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8551630
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/neurotrophicfactors/pseuds/neurotrophicfactors
Summary: "When he awoke, Percy began to design his first gun."





	

**Author's Note:**

> Title is from This Will Be The Day by Jeff Williams. This story is exactly what it says on the tin. Pull the trigger, Piglet.

Inspiration strikes like flint on steel, igniting a spark in the darkness. With care and perseverance, that spark is coaxed into a fire: bright, passionate, and all-consuming. Percival is inspired and he is instilled with purpose.

It’s different from before, when he aimed only to make himself useful. There was no end goal other than reimbursement for saving his life – not that Percival was ever expected to live for free; Captain Rylen expected him to earn his keep and worked him just as hard as the rest of the crew once he recovered. But now there’s resolve and a destination in sight, a path blazing before him, and Percival is drawn in like a moth to flame.

Percival is under no illusion that it’s a safe path or even a particularly righteous one, but now that he can see it so clearly, he covets it and devotes hours of time once spent sleeping on planning, calculating, and sketching. Years of study have culminated in this: his magnum opus. Rylen catches him awake one night and warns him that he will work himself into an early grave if he isn’t careful. Percival replies that he never expected to grow old anyway. A more nurturing soul may have expressed concern at these words, but Rylen simply rolls his eyes and tells Percival that his late night activities do not exempt him from wakeup call with the rest of the crew in the morning.

By the time the vessel makes its way upriver to dock in Drynna, Percival has completed his first draft of his design. It’s elegant and theoretically functional, but Percival has too much experience with tinkering to believe that his device will work the first time he attempts to build it. There will be revisions and he will waste gold on supplies; these things are inevitable. But this is no mere mechanical contraption like the implements he made for Rylen’s ship. This will be dangerous work and he will require the use of a forge for most of it.

Which means that he can no longer stay aboard the ship.

Percival finds Captain Rylen’s room in the tavern where they’re staying and knocks on the door shortly after the crew has retired for the evening. Rylen answers in his day clothes; his overcoat has been shed and the laces of his boots are untied, indicating that he was just beginning to prepare for sleep. Rylen leans against the doorjamb and furrows his brow as he eyes the young man in the semidarkness of the hallway, running his fingers absently through his salt and pepper beard.

“What do you want, boy?” Rylen asks. _Boy_. That’s what the Captain’s always called him – far more frequently than his own name. At first Percival hated it, thought it made him seem younger than he was, but eventually the paranoid part of him won out – ever fearful that the Briarwoods would hunt him down before he could return the favour – and he was thankful for it.

Percival pauses, eyes momentarily sliding away from the figure before him while he gathers his thoughts and grips the sheets of parchment more tightly in his hands as they begin to tremble. What he is doing here tonight goes against everything he has told himself for the last year, and yet he knows in his heart that it is necessary. Letting his breath out slowly, he meets Rylen’s gaze and says, “I suspect you’ve had questions. I am here to provide answers.”

Rylen considers him and for a brief moment, Percival thinks that he’s going to close the door in his face, but then the Captain stands aside and waves Percival in. Like Percival’s room, it is modest. There is a bed, a dresser, a chair, and a chamber pot, and a simple painting of the docks hung on the wall. A lantern perched on the dresser illuminates the space with a warm glow as Rylen takes a seat on the bed and waves toward the chair with one hand. Percival shifts awkwardly from one foot to the other, glances at Rylen’s coat draped over the back of it, and silently declines the offer.

 _Breathe_. Percival stands up straighter. “First, I believe an introduction is in order. My name is Percival Fredrickstein von Musel Klossowski de Rolo III of Whitestone, second son of Lord Fredrick –”

“I know,” Rylen says.

“Wait. _What?_ ” Percival blinks.

Rylen meets his eyes steadily. “I _know_.”

The awkwardness comes back as Percival loses his momentum, scratching behind his ear. “Do the others…?”

“If they do, I never told them,” Rylen says. “You think I live in a bubble, boy? I heard what happened in Whitestone the first time we got back to Drynna. First merchant I could talk to yacked my ear off about how trade with Whitestone was halted because the noble family up there died. And here we’d found some traumatized, snooty brat in the river coming down from the Alabaster Sierras not three weeks prior; it was easy enough to put two and two together.”

Percival stares at the floor, his mind buzzing. He’d had a script all planned out for this conversation, and now half of it is gone. He tries to find his place in it and is interrupted by a horrible thought: if it was so easy for the Captain to figure out who he was…

“No one but the crew knows where you came from,” Rylen interjects. “I made that clear to them. To Drynna, you’re just a merchant’s son who refused to take up the family business.”

A small laugh breaks out of Percival’s chest despite himself, easing the knot of tension in his gut. His mouth twists into a wry smile. “It seems I’ll never be able to repay my debt to you to the full extent which you are owed.”

Rylen shrugs. “You served on my ship, made some bloody useful modifications; seems paid enough to me.”

“If you’ll forgive me for saying so, I have to disagree.”

“You saying your life is worth more than a commoner’s?” A mischievous glint alights in the Captain’s eye and Percival is struck by how much he likes this man. A year ago Percival would have risen to the bait, if only for the fun of it, but this last year has changed everything and he gives no voice to the quips that come immediately to mind. There are more pressing matters to attend to.

“It is less a matter of worth and more a matter of risk,” Percival explains. “I do not know how desperate my family’s… _the people who attacked Whitestone_ are to find me. Their goals were not clear. Harbouring me on your ship with your crew was a dangerous gamble, and it was one you did not have to take. It would have been very easy to leave me in Drynna.” He deliberately does not mention the way he’d panicked and begged Rylen to keep him that first time they pulled into port. It was not one of his finer moments.

Rylen sighs and leans back on his hands, and Percival wonders if he is remembering that same moment too. “Not everyone does everything for rewards. That’s a pretty piss-poor motivation, if you ask me. I may not be a hero, but I know right from wrong.” There’s a beat and then he leans forward again, eyes narrowing. “So why come clean now?”

The small smile pulls into a self-deprecating grin. “Because I am not quite so virtuous as you and your men.”

Percival steps forward then and offers Rylen the parchment in his hands. Only years of training in etiquette allow him to exude a veneer of patience as he waits for the Captain to read over his schematics. There are equal measures of horror and excitement in sharing what he’s created; his invention is such a terrible, destructive thing and he can only imagine all of the awful ways it could be used if it fell into the wrong hands, and yet he can’t help but feel proud of how brilliant it is.

Occasionally, Rylen asks questions for clarification. “What’s the purpose of using such small projectiles?”

And Percival is all too happy to answer. “While the basic principle is derived from a crossbow, since the projectiles are being propelled by small, contained explosions, they require a cover to direct that flow of energy. However, that also means that there’s a higher chance that the force of the explosion will simply shatter the shaft, and more surface area will also increase friction inside the barrel. The safest and simplest solution is to use smaller projectiles that are less brittle. They’re more convenient anyway; they’ll be easy to store in higher quantities and by implementing multiple barrels, I won’t have to reload after every shot.”

Rylen hums in reply and goes back to reading before he asks his next question; and so it goes until the Captain sits there with the parchment resting in his lap while Percival forces himself to remain still as he eagerly awaits Rylen’s response. Rylen stares down at the pages for a long minute and sighs, running a hand through his hair. Then he looks up at Percival.

“And what are you planning to do with your little contraption?”

Percival straightens his posture. “I call it a hand cannon, for now – the name may undergo revision. But…” And he pauses now to gather his thoughts into a proper phrase. He sees red behind his eyelids as he blinks, wet and streaking across fabric and white stone floors. Hears cut off screams in the voices he loves, feels each one like a blow to his chest. He breathes in slowly and exhales. “You are not the only one I owe a debt to.”

“You’re looking for revenge then.”

A slow nod. “Succinctly, yes.”

“I imagine you’ll be leaving my crew then.”

A beat. “Yes.”

Rylen sighs again, going to lean his elbows on his knees before he remembers the parchment and snatches it up, holding the sheets out to Percival impatiently. Percival is quick to take them and then holds the stack to his chest protectively while Rylen folds his hands together and presses them to his mouth.

“I hope you know what you’re getting yourself into, boy,” Rylen says.

“I do. I –”

“No.” Rylen raises a hand and continues calmly. “Now it’s _your_ turn to listen. This isn’t a path you can start on and just walk away from. If revenge is what you’re after, there will be collateral damage. That’s how it always is when a man sets himself on a warpath. People will get hurt; not all of them will be those you intended. It doesn’t begin and end with the people who fucked you over; there are others along the way. There will be more sacrifices from you, and not all of them will be things you can see. Are you prepared to pay that price?”

Percival closes his eyes and thinks of his family. His beautiful, flawed family that he loved all the same. He feels the ache of their loss like missing limbs, torn from him suddenly and violently in the night. He remembers catching glimpses of smoke through the windows, billowing into the sky from the city of Whitestone while he fled through the castle. How many innocent lives were taken in that coup? How much _collateral damage_ did the Briarwoods cause?

He feels the prickling phantom pain of scars hidden beneath clothing and wishes he could wrap his arms around himself. Instead he tells Rylen, “I need this. If I am going to survive this, I need to make sure that they don’t.”

Rylen presses his lips together and narrows his eyes at Percival skeptically. “No offense, kid, but do you really expect to survive going after these people?”

“No,” Percival tells him honestly, “but I need to live with myself in the meantime. I am not going to pretend I’m doing this for some higher purpose, I’m not doing it to be noble. This is for me.”

Rylen’s eyes search Percival’s face and Percival could swear he looks… _sad_ at what he sees. Percival cannot distinguish whether it is sympathy or disappointment, and he does not care to discern it.

“I wish you the best of luck then, Percival,” Rylen tells him.

Percival gives him a low bow. “It has been an honour, Captain.”

In the morning, Captain Rylen departs with his crew and Percival finds a smithy. He’s familiar with the woman who owns it, a middle-aged elf from Marquet by the name of Farah. Percival has bought tools and parts from her in the past for the work he did on Rylen’s ship. She’s initially amused to see him, then confused as Percival explains that he has left Rylen’s crew. He tells her truthfully that his departure is motivated by a desire to pursue his own goals (though he carefully omits what those goals are), and eventually he is able to negotiate a deal. He lacks the training and experience to forge a blade or shield, but he is skilled in precision work. He could easily take on smaller, less appealing projects such as making door hinges or shaping filigree into ornate sheaths, leaving Farah free to work on commissions for weapons and armour. In return, Percival receives a reduced amount of pay, but is given full access to the forge for his own purposes and a discount for purchasing iron. He can tell that Farah is curious about what he intends to do with her forge, but she shakes his hand to seal the agreement.

As Percival steps out of her space, he folds his hands together and says, “I was also wondering if you know who I could speak to about finding lodging for the next few months or so?”

Farah’s eyes dance over Percival calculatedly and the corner of her mouth curves upward. “I do: half-orc by the name of Boris who works in the town hall. I _could_ offer you an alternative, however.”

Percival tilts his head and brings his folded hands to his mouth. “I would be happy to hear your suggestion.”

Her alternative, it turns out, is that Percival stays in the guest room of the house she lives in with her husband and daughter – for a price, of course. She asks Percival how much house work he’s used to (“Very little.”) and how educated he is (“Excessively so.”), and with some negotiation they come to an arrangement: Percival will stay in her home and pay for his own portion of their meals, and he will tutor her daughter.

“I have one condition, however,” Percival says.

Farah raises an eyebrow, crossing her arms. “I thought I was doing you a favour; I wasn’t aware that came with conditions.”

“We are doing business; there are _always_ conditions. Be thankful I only have one.”

Farah’s eye twitches with irritation, but she says, “Alright. Let’s hear it then.”

“Soundproofing,” Percival tells her. “I am somewhat of a…” He trails off as he searches for the right phrase, then barks a short, humourless laugh. “I’m a restless sleeper. Sometimes I talk or shout in my sleep. It would not do for me to impose my presence upon you and your family only to keep you awake with my nocturnal musings. This is as much for your benefit as it is mine.”

“Done,” Farah says. “My husband is a sorcerer.”

“That is good to know.”

It is not a smooth transition, going from living and working on a fishing boat to living and working with a blacksmith. If Percival is being honest, the work is the easiest part. It’s hard work, but the motions of it are familiar to him and muscle memory guides him as he uses fine tools to shape delicate pieces of iron. Farah takes full advantage of his employment to obtain his help with some of the heavy lifting or handing her tools while she’s otherwise engaged. Percival doesn’t mind it, in fact he relishes the opportunity to build up his strength.

The hard part is living with a family. Farah’s husband is a human; a kind man named Norbert who is less bookish than Percival expected upon hearing him described as a sorcerer. Their daughter Ilya is seven years old and full of life, all wide eyes and wonder. She is immediately enamoured with him, taking to following him around the house and poking at his glasses as she probes him endlessly for the details of his life. He frequently, but gently, admonishes her for being nosy all while trying to hide the way his heart pounds frantically against his ribcage like a trapped bird. He makes an effort to avoid her outside of their lessons, which is no simple task given that he lives with the girl.

In truth, Ilya is a better student than Percival is a teacher. He teaches her mathematics and the sciences, and he reads with her in both Common and Elven; but there are times when he fades out and Ilya has to call his name and tap his face to regain his attention. Calling upon the grudging patience he learned while helping his younger siblings with their studies brings the memories too close to the surface, and it is all too easy to sink into late night bickering and splashes of crimson. Occasionally, he has to cut the lesson short and excuse himself to retreat to his room where he can hyperventilate in relative peace. On those days, he asks himself why he ever agreed to Farah’s terms. He knew it was a foolish idea even as she presented it to him.

The work on his hand cannon is a respite, however frustrating it can be. The first task he takes upon himself is creating the explosive agent. Finding the right proportions of sulfur, charcoal, and saltpeter proves to be maddeningly meticulous. While he uses Farah’s workshop to mix the chemicals, he tests the explosive properties of his solutions outdoors; much to the displeasure of the community. He quickly loses count of the number of times he needs to use the emergency bucket of water he keeps on hand. He also loses count of the number of burns and shrapnel cuts he receives as the volatile mixture combusts unexpectedly. His final product is a black powder with a modest explosive capacity; enough to make a good propellant, but not enough to destroy its container – in theory.

In theory, because the number of times Percival succeeds in doing just that is astounding. He spends many late nights in the workshop scribbling over his old schematics – adding calculations and addendums. He bases the triggering mechanism off of a crossbow’s, but then comes the challenge of lining up the flint with the frizzen _just_ so to create a decent spark while the pan opens to expose the black powder. Creating the vent into the combustion chamber is another matter entirely; one laden with constant calculation and recalculation as he tries to work out the diameter that will provide enough pressure to propel the projectiles at the highest possible velocity without exploding in his hand. The simplest part of the entire process is making the projectiles, or _bullets_ , as he’s taken to calling them. For those, he fashions a mold after the ones Farah uses for the heads of her crossbow bolts.

The work takes longer than Percival expected for various reasons. One of the occupational hazards of being an inventor is the lack of precise guidelines; much of what he does comes down to trial and error. As a result, it quickly becomes a very expensive occupation as he burns through gold and supplies. There are also blank days, aptly named for the times when he fades into memories and nothingness; usually after he’s cut a lesson short with Ilya.

Farah is ever curious about what Percival has been working on, but he never shows her the schematics or asks for her help. Captain Rylen was a safe option because he never had the means to recreate Percival’s invention. The same cannot be said of Farah, and no matter her generosity in allowing Percival to live with her and use her facilities, he does not trust anyone else with this power; he barely even trusts himself with it.

For better or for worse (probably for worse), eventually Percival manages to construct a weapon with six barrels and a flintlock mechanism that can shoot small metal projectiles at absurdly high speeds. In theory. The handle is made of wood and Percival has spared none of his newly honed skills in shaping filigree into the metal. It’s beautiful. The entire concept of his weapon is utterly mad, and he has never been prouder. He has taken to affectionately referring to it as the pepperbox. And on five of the six barrels he has engraved the names of the five people who inspired his creation, like a list of references: Lady Delilah Briarwood, Lord Sylas Briarwood, Dr. Anna Ripley, Sir Kerrion Stonefell, and Professor Anders.

Now comes the final test: it is a few hours before sunrise when Percival takes his completed weapon out of the workshop and into the chilled night air, his breath coming out in wisps before him like spirits slipping into the ether. His hands tremble with trepidation and excitement as he holds the pepperbox reverently. The trees are bare skeletons and frost clings to the dead grass on either side of the street as he walks toward the outskirts of Drynna. It is early spring, nearly a year after Percival first began designing his greatest invention. His fingers are going numb, but there is heat in his chest and in his gut; a feeling of deep accomplishment warming him from the inside.

He breaks away from the road as he exits the town and heads toward the woods, stopping fifty feet away from the nearest tree. It is deciduous in nature, branches naked and reaching for the stars above like beckoning hands. Percival plants his feet and raises the pepperbox in both of his hands, aiming the barrels at the heart of the tree’s trunk.

He breathes in, then out. In, and out.

With his thumb, he pulls back the hammer to prime the flint for ignition.

In, and out.

His hands still and he closes his eyes, pictures his mother, father, and all six of his siblings, followed by the five men and women who tore them away from him. He tastes blood and ash on his tongue.

In, and out.  

He opens his eyes and on his next exhale, his finger tightens and he pulls the trigger.

The air shatters around a crack like thunder.

**Author's Note:**

> Finger guns to Dragon Age fans who caught my vague reference to the Egg Man; wording was slightly different, but still. It's there. Unfortunately, it will probably be a month before I can write the third part of this story. Final projects, papers, and exams are all coming at once, so it's back to scientific papers for the time being. 'Tis one of the burdens of being a university student. Thank you so much in the meantime, both for reading this now and your patience in the time to come.


End file.
